


whispering in their ears, give them unquiet dreams

by Gwerfel



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Dream Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Platypus pond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22159405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: Francis has a very vivid dream about that platypus pond. Things go a bit differently this time.For the Terror Bingo 2019 prompt 'Nothing lives there'.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	whispering in their ears, give them unquiet dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I can only apologise tbh.

It is far too hot, he is sweltering. Sweat is stinging his eyes, he squints up at the burning sun. Above him the boughs of a great tree creak and sway, sunlight flashing at him as the leaves rustle. Francis raises his hands from his sides; they pull slowly through thick oily freshwater, lush green with algae. He wipes his face, it clears the sting but brings no reprieve from the heat.

"Miss Cracroft?" He calls out, "Sophia?"

His words come out quiet, hoarse, they do not echo on the water or bounce back to him from the dense jungle beyond.

She is gone, he can hear her laughter growing distant, she vanishes between the silver trees on the far shore like a woodland sprite. He sees the flash of her white thigh, the flick of pale yellow hair between thick black shadows. She is gone and he is alone here in this soupy heat, this ugly swamp, perspiration dripping from his temples, gripping the roots of some ancient tree to stay afloat. The tree stands on a clod of dark silty earth rising out of the centre of the pond, its own island. He can see the shore from where he bobs, the thicket into which Sophia has vanished, but it seems so much further away than he remembers.

He does remember being here before. Van Diemen's Land - the picnic, the pond, Sophia's long legs. They were looking for platypuses, but there were none. There are none here today, he knows it without further need for proof. There is nothing living here - he hears not one bird, sees not one fish, no crawling beetles or buzzing flies. That is odd; last time he was here the place was teeming with life, a thousand species, all unknown to him, roaring out. He remembers it so well.

He does not remember the tree.

He is submerged to his chest, naked as she was, and beneath the relentless Australian sun the water is as warm as his own skin, as warm as bathwater. His clothes are piled up on the other side of the bank, he must swim if he wants to be free of this place. But it is _so_ warm. He feels languid and drowsy - and Sophia has left him with something else. A cruel vexation between his legs, achingly tight, the slick stagnant waters tormenting him with a formless caress.

He is not alone. He realises it slowly, and then it is as if he has always known it. He looks up, behind himself, and there on the one-tree-island a man appears. He steps forward, looking down at Crozier. Red hair, blue eyes, pointed features. He is completely naked and entirely unconcerned by it. He gazes upon Francis in perfect stillness, and then he smiles. 

He begins to descend, stepping lightly down the steep ladder of gnarled roots, his narrow hips slouching forward for balance, the black shadows of leaves sliding across his face, dappled sunlight dazzlingly bright on his porcelain skin. Crozier moves in the water to get a better view of this being, stretching and twisting to reach for another branch to cling to. The water swirls about his middle, gathering between his legs, and he moans shamefully.

The man is directly above him now, and drops smoothly into the pond, feet first. The water envelopes him like swathes of green velvet. Crozier stares, voiceless, as the man swims towards him in three long quick strokes, barely disturbing the surface. 

This is not how this happened, this is not where he is supposed to be. He knows this man.

Cornelius Hickey is nose to nose with him now, his arms and legs moving in wide loose circles beneath the water to keep himself afloat, his eyes cold and curious. He kicks up the silt, disturbing the water between them and sending shivers through Francis. He jerks forward, helplessly chasing the sensation, and the head of his prick grazes Hickey's belly. The surprise of contact is delirious, it makes his head swim, and grows fiercer still as Hickey winds his arms around Francis's neck and pulls himself close, legs wrapping around his hips, next, so Francis cannot move and bears both their weight as he grips the rough tree roots above. 

_This cannot be real_ . This place is not real, and this man is not real; Francis is dreaming, he is asleep in his bunk on _Terror_ , he knows that. Whiskey and misery have conspired against him to project a hallucination; a corruption of the memory of that afternoon with Sophia in Van Diemen’s Land. It is utterly meaningless.

...and if that is the case, there can be no harm in allowing it to take its course, surely? The heat in Crozier’s groin is real enough, the clamouring need. He didn’t choose this perverse illusion, but he can choose to take advantage of it. No one will know. 

Hickey's body is hard and small, skin slippery and shockingly cold, even in this climate. He presses firmly into Crozier, writhing so that his sharp hip bones grind into Francis' knotted muscle, his jutting rib cage rakes at Francis' age-softened middle. Hickey's prick is hard as his own; it jumps against Francis's, they rub together unbearably beneath the thick dark water while above Hickey pants roughly in his ear, chilling the sweat on Francis' neck and making his spine prickle. 

Their slick bodies slide against each other, burning hot and cold as ice.

Francis rocks into him, working his hips upwards like an overeager boy, seeking the greatest pressure, trying to find the motion that will finally loosen this ever tightening, straining knot. He is close to it, as Hickey moans like a woman into his ear, arms hard and chilled as marble, he digs his heels into Francis' buttocks bringing them impossibly close and Francis begins to reach for his climax, a chink of light in the grey distance.

Hickey suddenly lets go, pushes away, leaving Francis insensible with want. He shudders and watches Hickey disappear under the water, bobbing forward sleek as a fish, he swims down and between Francis' legs, brushing the fine hairs on his calves and making him thrash, throwing up more black mud from the pond bed, soft as satin between his toes. He turns in the water, to face the tree island again, but is faced only with the lacework of roots and the rich dark silt.

Hickey resurfaces behind him, and has him in his grasp again before Francis can turn around fully. 

"Legs together, captain," Hickey hisses as he thrusts between Francis' wet thighs, sliding easily, the head of his cock dragging along the underside of Francis', making him grunt as the tension brewing in him begins to bubble and simmer once more. 

Back and forth, Hickey plunges his precocious little prick, bony ankles hooked around each other keeping Francis' legs closed tight and feeling every inch of it against his most tender parts. It is filthy, and with every jolt Francis feels his pulse rising, the patter throbbing in his temples and his cock head, he cants his hips greedily forward seeking more contact, but no angle he can reach will produce anything more than a flutter of pleasure, no sign of its peaking. 

He grunts with frustration as Hickey begins to sigh and keen, his movements growing shorter and more rapid. Selfish hands grip Francis' shoulders, dripping pond water and tangled with green strings of algae fine as selkie hair, and Francis would beg to be touched if he thought Hickey would listen. "Go on and beg," Hickey rasps, because in this terrible place, Hickey can read his mind. "Go on, captain."

Hickey begins to lower his cool hand, down Francis' body leaving raised hairs in its wake, it disappears below the surface of the water and Hickey cries out loudly as he comes, his prick throbbing so hard Francis feels it against his own, and that is enough, that sends him plummeting, roaring --

Francis awakes convulsing, hips stuttering against his sweat drenched bedsheets, dousing them as he ejaculates with a dry gasp. 

Coming to his senses, he rolls over, the blankets twisting about him and pulling taut where he has become tangled in his fitful sleep, he struggles free. The air in his cabin is stale and muggy, the light poor. He is alone; he has no tormentor, only a cold sweat and a damp nightshirt.

He reaches down for the whiskey which stands on the floor beside his bed and finds it a quarter full. His head aches, his mouth is dry, but he finishes the bottle before Jopson comes knocking.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, you may as well leave me a comment :P


End file.
